


Sudden Wholeness

by i_claudia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crime Fighting, M/M, Snark, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-15
Updated: 2009-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first body they came across was a shock. Harry didn’t recognize her, but reflected in her face was the same frozen expression of horror all the victims wore into death, as if something had frightened them so much they gave up life to escape it. He exchanged a grim look with Malfoy and did a cursory check for her vitals, but they both knew it was useless. They were always too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sudden Wholeness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2009 round of hd_holidays and originally posted [here](http://hd-holidays.livejournal.com/148448.html). (15 December 2009)

Harry checked his watch again and tried not to tap his fingers on the arm of his chair.

“Stop twitching,” Malfoy hissed, turning on his heel again and stalking back across the room. His heels made soft _clicking_ noises on the grey tile, and Harry resisted the urge to point out that Malfoy was just as twitchy, maybe even more. Getting into an argument here wouldn’t help them; they had to present a united front. Merlin knew this meeting was going to be difficult enough without a fight with Malfoy on top of everything else.

“They’re late,” Harry said, and Malfoy snorted.

“Once again, you prove yourself master of the obvious. Could you be quiet for more than two seconds? I’m trying to figure out _why_ they’re late.”

Harry leaned his elbows on the table, propping his chin on top of his hands. “Trying to throw us off,” he suggested.

Malfoy shook his head. “They’d never have sent for us in the first place if they didn’t want us here. They should be bending over backwards for us, they’re that desperate.”

It wasn’t that Harry didn’t believe Malfoy; he knew exactly what it meant that officials from no fewer than ten countries had asked for them specifically. 

It had started with scattered murders that no one really remarked upon or thought to tie together. There was no connection between the victims, except that they were all young witches and wizards somewhere in their twenties or thirties, and they were all found naked as the day they were born.

It wasn’t until the murderer had started targeting high profile politicians and powerful wizards around Europe that people had started to take notice, and when no group had stepped forward to claim responsibility for the assassinations, tensions had gone through the roof. Kingsley had kept Britain entirely out of the whole conflagration at first, he couldn’t ignore that the murders had begun in England, which was why Harry and Malfoy were currently in a grey, curiously sweet-smelling government building somewhere in Brussels. 

Even the Minister for Magic couldn’t smooth things over entirely, Harry thought with grim amusement, when it turned out the greatest Wizarding serial killer of the century turned out to be English.

Malfoy was still pacing. “It doesn’t make _sense_ ,” he said. “Nathalie swore they’d straightened everything out; even Austria’s agreed to send someone. They can’t afford not to have this conference, not when Griswold’s started to kill more than one wizard at a time.”

“Well,” Harry sighed, rolling his shoulders to loosen them, “whether they can afford it or not, they’re three hours late. Something’s up.” He sniffed the air, wondering if there was actually anything open nearby – a bakery, maybe, or a chocolate shop. The air smelled like burnt sugar and caramel, sickly sweet in his nostrils. “Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?” Malfoy demanded, irritable. “I don’t smell a thing, unless its my own utter _contempt_ for the idiots who think it’s perfectly acceptable to keep a pair of high-ranking British Aurors waiting forever – don’t make that face, Potter, you know it’s true, stop pretending you won’t be Head Auror in a few years when Dawlish retires...” He trailed off, his eyebrows furrowing together as he sniffed the air again. “Sweet,” he said. “Too sweet. Almost smells like Nice.”

Harry yawned. They’d been up most of the night before preparing, making sure everything was going to run smoothly for the conference, and he was more than ready to crawl back to the flat they’d been sharing and curl up for a nap. “Nice?” he asked. Nice had been weeks ago; they’d been there for less than a day before things had gone to hell and they’d barely escaped in time.

He was about to ask Malfoy when exactly he’d started becoming so nostalgic for their especially hair-raising near-death encounters when the comparison actually clicked in his mind.

“Shite,” he said, pinching his arm hard in an attempt to jolt himself into alertness. “Malfoy, _Nice_. We’ve got to get out,” because this is how they’d almost died in Nice, this sneaky, sweet gas that dragged at their limbs, drugged their minds until it was a struggle to blink, to lift a finger, let alone a wand.

Malfoy was already drawing his wand, casting a Bubble-Head charm; Harry followed suit. “He’ll have the entrances all rigged,” Malfoy said, pitching his voice low. Harry nodded: they’d learned that particular painful lesson in Copenhagen, and he still had the curse scar on his back to prove it.

He jerked a thumb toward the window, raising his eyebrow in question, and Malfoy shook his head. “Sealed,” he murmured. “And about twelve stories off the ground, so unless you care to test the theory that you really can walk on air like the _Prophet_ claims, we’ll have better luck with the door.”

The door to the conference room hadn’t been set with a trap, and the corridor beyond was deserted. They crept down it anyway, staying low and near the wall, wands at the ready. The silence made Harry’s skin creep. There were hundreds of offices in this building; there should be _some_ noise, even just the distant hum and rumble of people in official robes busily running things and sending each other memos and gossiping over terrible coffee.

They didn’t find any traps, either. Each door Malfoy checked came up clean, and his mouth compressed into a thinner and thinner line each time they walked through one unscathed. Harry agreed with the sentiment. It was all too easy; he could feel the hairs on his arms prickling with uneasy anticipation, his fingers going numb where he was gripping his wand too tightly. 

The first body they came across was a shock. Harry didn’t recognize her, but reflected in her face was the same frozen expression of horror all the victims wore into death, as if something had frightened them so much they gave up life to escape it. He exchanged a grim look with Malfoy and did a cursory check for her vitals, but they both knew it was useless. They were always too late.

They were nearing the exit now, and the bodies were thicker. Most were like the first, unmarked, their faces frozen into a rictus of terror, but some had fought, marked with curses and blood. Harry had to close his eyes a few times, fighting down nausea. How could one person have created so much horror?

“Why isn’t anyone here?” Malfoy asked, his voice strained. “Why doesn’t he set something loose, show off his strength?”

Harry thought for a moment, peering carefully through the door which led outside. “The gas,” he realized. “Maybe he hasn’t realized we escaped before it took us under.”

There was a loud crash behind them. It sounded as if the enormous stairway spiraling up the centre of the building had given way. Harry exchanged a grim look with Malfoy and sprinted out the door, keeping his head low as they sped away down the street. They didn’t stop until they reached the flat that had become their headquarters, panting, still reeling a little in disbelief at the carnage and their easy escape.

“I’ll call Dawlish,” Harry said once they were inside, making for the fireplace. Malfoy nodded, and disappeared into the back hallway. Harry watched him go, his gaze caught for a moment on the sight of Malfoy’s hair brushing gently against his black-robed shoulder, before he shook himself and grabbed a pinch of Floo Powder from the jar on the mantle.

*

It had started a few months before, when Head Auror Dawlish had summoned them to his office and left them standing in the hall for over half an hour before he called them in.

The first five minutes had been spent in stony silence, Harry occasionally sneaking looks at Malfoy and wondering when Malfoy had started developing the tiny, worried creases around his eyes. He was used to Malfoy these days, had worked with him on a few cases, but they hadn’t spent much time together. It was startling to see lines on Malfoy’s face that mirrored Harry’s own.

They’d worked together before – once on a case where they’d had to go undercover, with Malfoy as a crossdresser and Harry as his escort – and Harry sometimes saw him in a park near the Ministry, sometimes with his son, sometimes alone, but it had been a while since their interactions had been anything more than exchanging pleasantries in the halls. 

“Sorry to hear about Richardson,” Harry said finally, the only thing he could think of to break the silence. Malfoy’s partner had been given an involuntary extended leave of absence after very nearly causing the accidental demolition of the Ministry through a combination of exhaustion, plastic spoons, and a spectacular nervous breakdown in the middle of the Atrium.

Malfoy raised one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Weasley still in hospital?” he inquired, and Harry bristled, just a little bit, even as he nodded. Ron’s injuries were none of Malfoy’s business; they could have happened to anyone, Harry was sure. Malfoy didn’t need to be an arse about it.

“Did you ever get to the bottom of the Whitford murders?” Harry asked. He’d glanced at the case file but hadn’t really been keeping track of it beyond listening to the exchange of theories in the corridors of the Auror department. From what he’d gathered, it had been a string of murders around London, notable in that the victims had been poisoned with something that left a strange pattern on their bodies and sapped their magic completely before it killed them.

The corner of Malfoy’s face twisted down in a disgusted sneer. “We’re pretty sure we know exactly who did it; figured out what kind of poison he was using and how he gained access to the victims, but we can’t touch him. He’s got a rock-solid alibi and friends with money.”

“Rotten luck,” Harry said, and meant it. “Maybe something will turn up?”

“Maybe,” Malfoy said, crossing his arms. The conversation faded away, and Harry focused on the wood paneling of Dawlish’s office door, trying to ignore the small voice inside his head which was demanding to know why he and Malfoy, the only two senior Aurors temporarily without partners, had been summoned by Dawlish at the same time.

“I read the papers this morning,” Malfoy remarked after a long silence.

Harry tensed. “Did you,” he said, keeping his voice flat and utterly uninterested.

“It must be hard on your children.”

“They’ll be fine,” Harry gritted out. The last thing he needed was Malfoy digging around in his personal life; he expected the _Prophet_ to have fifteen fits and a field day with the news of his divorce, but he’d thought he’d be able to hide behind a little professional courtesy at work, at least.

“It was difficult for Scorpius at first,” Malfoy added, his voice calm, as if he was remarking on the weather. “It took him some time to adjust.” Belatedly, Harry realized that he was being a bit of an arse to Malfoy, and flushed. He’d forgotten that Malfoy had divorced his wife a few years earlier. It had been a relatively quiet affair – Harry suspected that having recovered most of the Malfoy fortune through his independent potions work, Malfoy had paid a significant amount for that privacy.

He relaxed, just a little bit. Malfoy wasn’t trying to get scraps of information for the press; he was trying to relate to Harry, maybe even offer his support. It didn’t mean that he was going to share all the reasons he and Ginny had divorced, but maybe he’d found an ally against the tabloids. It was weird, since it was Malfoy, but Harry would take weird over invasive any day.

Dawlish had called them before Harry could say anything, though, and the subject had been completely pushed out of his mind.

“You’re sending us _where_?” Harry demanded when Dawlish finished explaining. “You can’t be serious.”

“Nice is lovely in the fall,” Malfoy remarked. “You have no taste for culture, Potter.”

“I have no taste for assignments that I shouldn’t be getting,” Harry shot back, and added a rebellious “Sir,” after Dawlish cleared his throat significantly.

“I understand your reluctance, Mr Potter,” Dawlish said. “But you and Mr Malfoy are the only suitable team to send. Mr Malfoy has extensive previous knowledge of the case, and you are the only Auror with enough experience to send with him. You are both also currently without a partner. I fail to see where there is a problem with any of this.”

“I don’t like France,” Harry muttered, not about to say that he didn’t want to go because he’d rather not spend an uncertain amount of time in close contact with Malfoy. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Malfoy was a fine bloke – well, he didn’t hate Malfoy anymore, that was certain – but he’d much rather not be forced to hang around him all the time.

“That is not a legitimate objection,” Dawlish told him, sounding incredibly long-suffering. “You’re going.”

“But sir,” Harry protested, “if the wards are going to fail, surely we’re both needed here?”

Dawlish linked his fingers together, propping his elbows on his desk. “All the reports we’ve received point toward clear evidence that the suspect is now operating in Europe.” He looked at Malfoy, and Malfoy nodded. “This ceased to be a domestic affair the moment wizards outside of Britain were assassinated and drained of their magic – we don’t know yet if he’s planning to use the power he’s harvesting to weaken our wards alone, or if he plans to bring down ward nets all over Europe. That’s what you have to figure out.”

Harry frowned, but he couldn’t exactly argue the point. Dawlish studied him for a moment before nodding. “Mr Malfoy, please fill Mr Potter in on the details of the case. I’ll expect regular reports from both of you. You’ll have access to special Ministry funds for whatever you need on this mission;I want this man stopped as soon as possible. You can get the details from Accounting before you leave.”

Harry knew a dismissal when he heard it. He stood with Malfoy and left the office, only barely managing to keep from grumbling.

When they reached Malfoy’s office, Malfoy handed him a bulging file. “That’s the file,” he said. “Would you like to look through it, or would you rather have me summarize it for you?”

Harry looked at the file, resigned. “I’ll have to read it at some point,” he said with a sigh, “but for now why don’t you fill me in on the important things.”

The suspect’s name was Renault Griswold. He’d been sympathetic to Voldemort’s cause but despite his best efforts never received the Dark Mark. Harry shook his head at that, his frown deepening. Was there no end to the remnants of the war? Sometimes he felt like he was going to spend his whole life hunting down Voldemort’s supporters and putting them in Azkaban.

Griswold had started with the Whitford murders, moving erratically around London and the surrounding towns, targeting witches and wizards and sucking them magically dry before killing them.

“I’m not sure if the poison he uses kills them directly, or if it’s a side-effect of losing their magic,” Malfoy explained. “Your friend Granger thinks it might be a combination of both.”

Harry started at that. “You’ve been working with Hermione?” he asked, confused.

Malfoy gave him an even look. “Of course,” he said. “Other than being one of the Ministry’s top barristers, she’s an amateur Potions expert.” 

Harry reeled a little at _Malfoy_ giving Hermione any kind of compliment, but Malfoy didn’t give him time to adjust, continuing in his explanation without so much as a twitch.

The trail in Britain had run cold after a while – probably because Griswold had moved overseas, Malfoy explained – but the Ministry had started detecting weaknesses in the wards protecting Britain from detection from Muggles and safe from outside attack.

“We think he’s using the magic he takes to weaken the wards, cutting the threads holding them together one by one,” Malfoy said.

Harry was intrigued despite himself, drawn to the curiousness of the case. “Why?” he asked. “Why would he want to bring down the wards?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he wants to start a war between wizards and Muggles, cleanse the country. Maybe he’s looking for something on a wider scale. Maybe that’s why he moved to the Continent. That’s what we have to figure out.”

Harry traced his fingers over the top of the case file speculatively. At least it was going to be an interesting trip, even if he still didn’t exactly want to go to France with Malfoy. He’d never met a Frenchman who liked him, he thought, resolutely focusing on the first bit of his reluctance and ignoring the second entirely.

*

Their arrival in France was slightly warmer than anticipated, but Harry suspected that had a lot to do with the fact that the French Minister’s Chief Undersecretary had turned up dead that morning. They’d had to hit the ground running, and hadn’t stopped since. They moved around a lot, from underground shelters to flats to office buildings in Paris, Munich, Rome, Prague. 

The first time they’d almost walked into a death trap was in Oslo, in the middle of a raging blizzard. They’d been trying to make contact with someone who claimed to have met Griswold, but all they’d found was a body and a series of increasingly clever traps which nearly cost Malfoy his left arm.

(“I told you not to grab the handle,” Harry yelled at him when they were clear and he was busy making sure Malfoy wasn’t going to bleed to death. Malfoy had smiled and waved his uninjured hand carelessly.

“Did the trick, though, didn’t it?” he said. “The door led straight outside; I think that’s worth a little discomfort.” Instead of hitting him, Harry scowled and wrapped Malfoy’s wounds too tightly. It wasn’t that he enjoyed Malfoy’s company, exactly; just that between Malfoy and no one, he’d take Malfoy’s sharp tongue and sharper eyes any day.)

Living with Malfoy was not as horrible as he’d expected. Malfoy seemed to have relaxed a lot in the years since school, and was perfectly happy to crack open a Butterbeer with Harry at the end of a long day tracking useless leads, propping his stocking feet up on the stacks of books which usually served as a side table. Harry now knew that Malfoy followed the Magpies, that he hated green vegetables, and that he took his tea black, steeped so long that it turned so bitter it practically dissolved whatever spoon Harry used to stir the sugar (one cube) into it.

“You know,” Harry pointed out once, “you wouldn’t have to add any sugar if you didn’t let it sit so long.”

“Do I tell you how to drink your horrible coffee?” Malfoy asked, cradling his mug close to his chest. “No. So don’t insult my tea.”

They shared Floo calls to Hermione; Harry asking after Ron and the kids, Malfoy discussing the latest research he’d turned up on the poison Griswold used and debating the effects of asphodel harvested at midnight versus dried cherry bark. It was comfortable, Harry realized a month into their assignment. Domestic, even. He’d been a little leery about it the first few weeks, especially in light of Griswold’s politics, but after the sixteenth time he caught Malfoy rubbing at his left arm and frowning, he realized that Malfoy was even more uncomfortable about it than he was. 

Malfoy had never really been a Death Eater, Harry concluded, not in any way that counted. He remembered the Malfoy he’d known at seventeen – that Malfoy might have done stupid things, but he’d never killed for pleasure. The Malfoy he knew now was even harder to imagine as a Death Eater. Malfoy spent his time poring over mouldy potions books looking for the poison Griswold favoured and complaining about the crack he was developing in his heel; he could care less about blood purity or cleansing Britain.

When Malfoy pushed him out of the way of a curse, Harry put aside any distrust he’d had for good. Which was all well and good to do, but it made things weird in a different way.

Harry had started _noticing_ Malfoy, studying the curve of his neck as he bent his head over another book, watching his fingers as they curled around a mug or his wand, coveting the moments when Malfoy stretched and his jumper rode up, exposing the pale soft skin of his stomach.

Mostly Harry ignored those thoughts. He wasn’t gay, and he hadn’t split up with Ginny because he’d had some mid-life crisis or epiphany, no matter what the press or Hermione hinted at. He was just horny, and Malfoy was around all the time. It didn’t mean anything more than that.

*

When Harry finally made it through to Dawlish on the Floo Network, something tight in the Head Auror’s face loosened at the sight of Harry’s face in his fire. “Harry!” he exclaimed. “Merlin, we weren’t sure you two made it out.”

“Of course we did,” Harry said stoutly. “We always do.” He refused to think about the people who hadn’t made it, the sight of all those bodies on the floor, their attacker long gone.

Dawlish leaned forward. “It’s bad,” he confided in a low voice. “The reports don’t all agree, but half of the high ranking officials in Europe were supposed to be at that conference. This was a calculated blow to weaken us.”

Harry swore. “We’re no closer on the Italy documents,” he said. “Malfoy’s been working on them but we still haven’t figured out the final ingredients of the potion or how Griswold brews it. Maybe in another week we’ll have the information we need. We’ve heard that Berlin is a target, and if we can catch him there—”

Dawlish shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.” He took a closer look at Harry’s rebellious expression and leaned forward. “That’s an order, Auror Potter,” he said, the warning clear in his voice. “We cannot risk you on heroics any more. We’ll send a team to Berlin as soon as possible, but I doubt it will do any good, if you two haven’t caught him yet. Your job is to work with Malfoy and come up with something we can use to stop him.”

“But we hardly know anything at all,” Harry objected, already chafing at the restriction. Malfoy was the researcher, the one who could look at facts and put them together – Harry was the doer, needed to be running down criminals and making them tell him everything they knew. What was he supposed to do now, hide out and hope no one else was killed while they looked at papers that didn’t make sense?

Dawlish’s tone turned dangerous. “‘Hardly anything’ is better than nothing at all. The wards over Edinburgh have disintegrated almost entirely. I don’t want you to even _think_ about stepping outside unless it’s for food or the building is actually on fire. Is that clear?”

Harry eyed him speculatively, but Dawlish’s face was set. “Fine,” Harry said mulishly, not caring if he sounded childish.

The conversation ended quickly after that – with the Ministry in an uproar about the latest debacle, Dawlish had no time to spare. Harry understood; he just wished it didn’t make him feel so helpless, like his hands were tied and a blindfold had dropped around his eyes. Merlin, who knew how long he and Malfoy were going to be cooped up together while other people ran around doing work they were perfectly capable of, whatever Dawlish thought.

Malfoy was less than happy when Harry filled him in on the new details of their assignment, but he tried to hide it. “Well,” he said when Harry told him that Dawlish had practically put them under house arrest, “at least it’ll give me time to work.”

Harry leaned against the kitchen counter and kicked his foot against the floor moodily. “I’m going to go mad,” he complained.

“That’s your problem,” Malfoy said testily, and Harry felt a tiny stirring of guilt – Malfoy was stuck here just as much as he was, after all.

“Sorry,” he said, slumping further back onto the counter, leaning on his elbows. “I just hate doing nothing.”

Something flickered in Malfoy’s face – amusement, maybe, or frustration – and he turned away, heading back toward his room. “You may as well come help me with research,” he called over his shoulder. “I hope you’ve learned something from Granger after all these years.”

“I’m perfectly capable of research,” Harry pointed out. “I have done it for cases before, you know.”

“Only because Weasley is even worse at it than you are,” Malfoy said, but he gave Harry a quick smile. Harry only barely managed to keep himself from smiling back. Ron wasn’t _that_ bad at research, he’d cracked his fair share of cases; besides, the world would probably end if he and Malfoy actually smiled at each other, even if they did have a good professional partnership and sometimes Malfoy made coffee the way Harry liked it instead of strong enough to peel paint off of the walls, and sometimes Harry bought Malfoy’s favorite kind of wildly expensive chocolate at the market because he’d noticed Malfoy was having a bad day and rubbing at his left arm more than usual.

They got along well enough, but they weren’t _friends_ , Harry thought, taking a seat next to Malfoy and pulling over a sheaf of Malfoy’s notes to study. When this case was over they’d go back to the way things used to be, not speaking, maybe nodding to each other if they passed in the corridor – there would definitely not be any sitting together on Malfoy’s bed, knees gently knocking together, because it was the largest surface other than the floor in the flat and they had no chairs. 

He ignored the little corner of his mind that whispered that maybe he didn’t want things to go back to the way they’d been, and bent his head over the parchment.

*

Most of the information they had on Griswold was second- or third-hand, usually told by people so frightened that they had to work hard to make sense of even the most accurate-sounding accounts. When they’d found the documents Griswold had left behind in Italy, they’d celebrated, so sure the end was in reach. They knew the weapon was a poison, knew it stripped its victims of their magic before killing them. With information about the brewing from the criminal himself, they’d been so sure they’d find an antidote within the week.

Now, three weeks later, they weren’t much closer. They’d managed to figure out maybe half of the ingredients so far, but the documents were encoded, and spelled to self-destruct if someone without the code tried to force them to unscramble themselves. Harry had already accidentally destroyed one, the first day they’d had the parchments, and Malfoy had spent two days refusing to even look at him.

Malfoy, it seemed, had given up on the code for now, and was busy poring through books. Harry’d been watching him surreptitiously and couldn’t really tell what Malfoy’s criteria was for picking the texts – the flat was full of books on everything from _A Guide to Common Scottish Flora_ to _Philtres and Fantasies: How To Make Your Brewing Dreams Come True_. 

It was fascinating to watch Malfoy at work, and Harry found himself watching Malfoy more and more; still uneasy about it but unable to help himself. Harry wasn’t used to seeing Malfoy looking less than impeccable, but here, out of view of the rest of the world and engrossed in research, Malfoy ran his fingers through his hair until it stood on end and didn’t bother to dress in anything more complicated than a jumper. He pressed too hard against the parchment with his quill, spattering his hands with ink, and tugged on his nose while he thought, leaving black smears across his face. Sometimes, Harry felt a weird compulsion to reach out, rub his thumb across one of the stains on Malfoy’s cheek, but he firmly quashed it. Touching Malfoy’s face would definitely overstep the bounds of whatever comfortable plateau they’d reached.

Harry still chafed at being trapped inside, but he didn’t actually mind research, especially with Malfoy warm beside him, reaching over now and then to explain some of the more complex theories. 

Hermione would be proud of him, Harry thought wryly, for finding something like potions theory so interesting, but it wasn’t really the theories themselves that were drawing him in; it was Malfoy. Harry’d known that Malfoy was an expert, known that he was well-respected in the field and that he could’ve easily landed an excellent job outside the Aurors with any of the major European potions institutes, but it was one thing to know that and another thing entirely to _see_ it, see Malfoy’s face light up and watch his nimble fingers as they gestured or sketched diagrams or pointed Harry to more relevant information.

He carefully sealed those thoughts away, though, and tried not to think about them. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by puzzling through them to figure out what they meant. It was harder, though, now that he and Malfoy were trapped inside together; the thoughts that he’d been able to repress easily earlier were more forceful now, clamouring for his attention.

Once, Malfoy had walked out of the bathroom after showering, towel slung low over his hips and his hair still dripping, water running over his chest and down his legs. Harry hadn’t quite been able to breathe, and after Malfoy had disappeared into his room, Harry had crept into the bathroom and shoved a hand down his trousers, wanking desperately, squeezing his eyes shut, his nose full of the scent of Malfoy’s shampoo.

He hadn’t been able to meet Malfoy’s eyes for the rest of the day, but after the initial shame faded, he caught himself thinking about Malfoy more and more, wondering what Malfoy would say if Harry came up behind him in the kitchen and pressed him against a counter, scraping his teeth along the back of Malfoy’s neck, the curve of his shoulder; what Malfoy might look like spread out on Harry’s bed, naked except for the dappled shadows of the night, looking up invitingly at Harry from beneath lowered lashes. It didn’t help that they spent half their time in Malfoy’s room, sitting on Malfoy’s bed, since Malfoy refused on principle to go into Harry’s messy room and they still hadn’t bought any chairs.

Harry started spending a lot of time in the bathroom with the door locked, frustrated and embarrassed and unable to stop himself, hoping like hell that Malfoy never figured out why. Once, he caught Malfoy looking at him consideringly, as if he was trying to figure out a complicated equation. They’d stared at each other for a moment, and then Malfoy had turned away. They hadn’t spoken about it afterward.

One evening, three weeks after Dawlish had ordered them to lay low, Harry was studying the original case file on the Whitford murders. He’d taken out all the reports on the early murders and placed them side by side across the top of Malfoy’s bed, hoping it might help him make sense of it all, but he wasn’t having much luck, until something in the report on _Walsh, Amelia_ caught his eye. He picked up the file and looked at it more closely, trying to identify whatever it was that had leapt out at him. Cause of death was the same, the lines on the body were no different. Nothing set Amelia apart except...

“Malfoy,” he said slowly. “Are we sure Griswold doesn’t have an accomplice?”

Malfoy, propped up against the headboard looked up from the notes he was scribbling in the margins of one of his books – Harry was pretty sure it was Hermione’s book, and that Malfoy might not survive if Hermione ever found out he was writing in her books. “It never came up,” he said, frowning.

“Take a look at this,” Harry said, handing the file over. “Then look at the magical signatures left on the other victims.”

He watched Malfoy’s face, and was rewarded when Malfoy’s eyebrows rose suddenly in surprise.

“They’re off,” Malfoy said. “Not by much, but just enough to mean...”

“There are two signatures,” Harry finished. “One’s usually dominant—”

“Probably Griswold,” Malfoy interrupted.

Harry nodded. “But with this one victim, for whatever reason, the other person had the dominant signature, just enough to throw off our reading.”

Malfoy’s face was alight; Harry could practically see the cogs whirring in his head. “Of course,” he breathed. “It all makes sense now.”

“What makes sense?” Harry demanded.

“Two magical signatures,” Malfoy explained impatiently, throwing Hermione’s book aside and reaching for another one, flipping madly through the pages until he found what he was looking for. “Yes, I knew it! It’d never work with just one signature, but with two...”

“Malfoy, what the hell are you on about?”

Malfoy ignored Harry in favour of grabbing his wrist and hauling him bodily upright. 

“Come on,” Malfoy ordered, dragging Harry down the hall and out the door of the flat as Harry sputtered. “I am such an _idiot_ , why didn’t I think of this two months ago?”

“Think of what, Malfoy?” Harry said, struggling to keep his balance as he tried to match Malfoy’s pace. “What’s going on?”

Malfoy shot a sly glance at him that reduced Harry’s confidence that he was going to like whatever happened next to approximately zero. “Finding an old friend,” he said cryptically, and refused to say more.

“I want to see the look on your face,” he proclaimed. Harry responded by making several thoroughly unattractive faces at the back of Malfoy’s head; Malfoy ignored him.

Their destination turned out to be the old Potion’s Master guild hall in the heart of the old Wizarding quarter. It was locked for the night, but Harry had learned years ago that locks were remarkably easy to pick as long as you had something to jiggle the mechanism with and a little bit of magic to grease the way.

“Nice work,” Malfoy said approvingly after Harry swung the heavy oak door open. “Remind me again why the world is so convinced you’re a pure, innocent lamb?”

“Sod off,” Harry said, but without any real malice, and followed Malfoy inside.

He couldn’t see much once they were in, even after they’d both cast _Lumos_ charms; just enough to tell that the guild hall was a massive place. Their footsteps sounded tiny, the echoes quickly lost in the cavernous darkness of the building. 

Malfoy made straight for the back of the hall, to a wide corridor full of portraits and dark wooden paneling. 

“Oh no,” Harry said, filled with a sudden deep foreboding as Malfoy stopped in front of one portrait and raised his wand. “Malfoy, this is a terrible idea.”

“For once, I quite agree, Mr Potter,” Snape said with a sneer, peering bad-temperedly out of his frame down at them.

“Hello, Professor,” Malfoy said cheerfully. “I thought you might be hanging here.”

“Did you,” Snape said, his voice full of misgivings.

Malfoy ignored Snape’s warning tone entirely. “We need your help with a case.”

Snape said nothing, merely regarded Malfoy with a patient, indulgent sort of interest. Harry wondered how often Malfoy had gone to Snape when the professor was alive for help and advice. Malfoy had launched into the explanation of the poison, the double magical signature and the ingredients they’d figured out so far. Snape listened intently, a slight crease between his eyebrows. Once, his eyes flicked back to Harry’s face briefly, and Harry wondered with a sick lurch of his stomach if portraits of Legilimens could still read minds. He hastily tried to think of anything except Malfoy, and abruptly came up with all of his filthiest fantasies.

In desperation, he turned back to what Malfoy was saying. 

“...it could be a variation of a double-cast Restorative Potion, designed to suck away magic rather than restore it, but that wouldn’t drain someone completely dry.”

“Unless,” Snape broke in, tapping one long finger against his mouth. “Unless you substituted fresh-picked speckled lavender for the hyssop root.”

Malfoy shook his head. “But that wouldn’t kill the victim,” he said, thinking aloud. “This pulls all of the victim’s magic out and then starts on their life force; it’s totally uncontrolled.” He paused, and his face lit again with realization. “What if it was brewed at the waxing gibbous moon, instead of the waning crescent? That would give it the added power.”

“It is a novel approach,” Snape agreed. “But it might work. I think in this case it may be the only possible choice. The lavender would have to be absolutely fresh, though; picked and crushed straightaway before being added to the potion.”

Harry looked back and forth between them as they shot theories back and forth, a little awed. He’d listened to Hermione and Malfoy’s conversations, but he hadn’t really appreciated the fact that while Hermione knew a lot about Potions, she wasn’t an expert. Snape had been a Master, and Draco was as good as one. Harry was hard-pressed to follow them as they argued over progressively more esoteric points regarding the position of the cauldron in relation to the poles and the number of clockwise versus anti-clockwise stirs.

While they were in a particularly heated discussion about the merits of dried elecampane, Harry stifled a yawn, turning away to hide it. Malfoy glanced over at him anyway, pausing, and smiled ruefully. “Sorry,” he said. “I get a little carried away with these things.”

“It’s fine,” Harry hurried to reassure him. “Don’t worry about me. Keep going if you want.”

“I think we’re done with everything immediately relevant,” Malfoy said, looking up at Snape. “Unless you have anything to add, Professor?”

Snape shook his head gravely. “I would like to speak to Mr Potter for a moment, though,” he said. “Alone.”

Malfoy looked at Harry, curious, and Harry shrugged, equally confused. “I’ll be at the end of the hall,” Malfoy told him, and moved off into the dark. Harry watched his wandlight until it stopped moving and Snape cleared his throat.

They regarded each other for a long moment, Harry growing increasingly more uncomfortable. “Look,” he started, but Snape cut him off.

“I want to make myself absolutely clear,” he told Harry in a voice that brooked no argument, “that if you ever do anything to hurt Draco, I will find out, and I will make your life a living hell.”

Harry opened and closed his mouth a few times, completely blindsided by this pronouncement. “Uh, sure?” he offered finally.

Snape’s frown deepened, and Harry hurriedly added, “But no – yes, I mean, I understand entirely, won’t hurt him, of course not, cross my heart. Professor,” he remembered at the last moment.

“It will do,” Snape said finally, and Harry nodded a quick goodbye before practically sprinting to where Malfoy was waiting. 

“What did he want?” Malfoy inquired, and Harry shuddered. There was no way he was ever telling Malfoy what Snape had said.

“Nothing important,” he answered, and started walking toward the front doors. “Let’s get out of here.”

*

The walk back from the guild hall was quick. Malfoy was almost buzzing audibly with excitement, and Harry wondered a few times if he was actually going to take flight. Not that he was complaining about it – this was the best news they’d had almost since taking the case.

He was opening the door to their building when he heard something; quiet footsteps behind them. Malfoy looked at him, puzzled, when Harry stepped sideways to cover him, motioning him forward. Harry gave him a miniscule shake of his head, and Malfoy slipped through the door. Harry followed and pulled it firmly shut after him.

“What’s up, Potter?” Malfoy pitched his voice low, his mouth close to Harry’s ear. 

“Footsteps,” Harry breathed back as they moved up the stairs. “Outside, behind us. Didn’t want to take any chances.”

Malfoy nodded and drew his wand. The stairwell was silent; their hallway even more so, but it wasn’t until he’d slid the deadbolt behind them and raised the wards that Harry allowed himself a breath of relief.

“Another day, another near-death experience avoided,” Malfoy said brightly, breezing by Harry into the kitchen. “One of these days you’re going to actually turn into Mad-Eye Moody, you know.”

“Whatever,” Harry grumbled. “I really did hear footsteps.”

Malfoy shook the kettle at him. “Constant vigilance!” he scolded, severe, and promptly ruined the effect with an enormous grin.

“Sod off,” Harry said, fond despite himself. He couldn’t really be angry with Malfoy, not when things were finally looking up for them. They knew what poison Griswold used now, and that he had an accomplice. Before long they’d be able to catch them in the act, put them both away in Azkaban for good. It had been, Harry thought, an excellent day.

“I’m going to firecall Dawlish,” Harry said. “He can start organizing the Aurors to find every potioneer who sells the rarer ingredients in that poison.”

Malfoy waved at him absently, preoccupied with tea, and Harry backtracked to the tiny front room of the flat and grabbed the pot of Floo powder from the mantle before lighting a small fire with his wand and tossing a pinch of the powder into the flames.

The firecall ran up against a block; what felt like a solid stone wall keeping him from Dawlish’s office. He frowned and tried again, using more powder, but ran up against the same wall. Dawlish’s home yielded no different results. Frustrated, he sat back on his heels.

“Malfoy!” he yelled. “Something’s blocking the Floo Network.”

There was no answer. Harry sighed. Malfoy’d probably taken his tea into some dark corner with his notes to celebrate – Harry wouldn’t put it past him to be practicing his cackling. He got up and poked his head into the kitchen, but there was no sign of Malfoy. A quick knock on the doors to the bathroom and Malfoy’s bedroom yielded no results either. Harry returned to the kitchen and stared at the kettle, which was beginning to whistle.

There was no reason for Malfoy to leave, he thought, retracing his steps through the flat, half-thinking that he might have overlooked Malfoy, as if he’d just been misplaced. It was possible that Malfoy had stepped out for something, but between the footsteps earlier and the fact that they hadn’t run out of food, Harry very much doubted it. Malfoy wasn’t one to take stupid chances.

If he _had_ gone out, though, he couldn’t have gone very far. Harry unlocked the door and cautiously poked his head out, looking up and down the hall. The lone bare light bulb was actually lit for once, although it was flickering a little, and the hallway was empty, quiet. He was about to close the door again, feeling just the slightest bit foolish – Malfoy had to be inside somewhere, maybe he just hadn’t looked hard enough – when he heard a muffled thump from the direction of the stairwell.

Harry stopped dead, listening, and the noise came again, this time accompanied by a faint yell. He was out the door and halfway down the hall before he even realized his feet were moving; he spared less than a second considering whether or not to go back and close the door before giving up on it and sprinting for the stairs, all of his focus on the thought that Malfoy was being attacked, Malfoy needed his help. Shoving the thought of what Malfoy’s face would look like beaten and bloody out of his mind, he yanked the door to the stairwell open hard and barreled through, wand at the ready.

The stairs were empty. Harry stopped short of dashing up or down to look, instead leaning carefully over the railing to peer down the centre of the stairwell. Nothing. Huffing a short laugh at himself, he stepped back, shaking his head at his nerves. As if Malfoy would leave the flat without letting Harry know; it was practically the first rule you learned as an Auror – never go anywhere without your partner knowing when you’re working a case. Maybe Malfoy had been in the bathroom after all, and just hadn’t heard Harry’s knock.

The blow to the back of his head was sudden and painful. He staggered under it, blinking away the explosions of coloured lights from his eyes. He tried to turn, to raise his wand and defend himself, but a cloth descended over his nose and mouth, pressing down sickly sweet and strong, suffocating him. He struggled against it, lashed out and caught something soft with his elbow – it felt like a stomach – but his eyes were stinging now, and he couldn’t see, the pain from the blow expanding until it felt like he was going to shatter apart from it. The last thought he managed before the black clouds threatening at the edges of his vision swallowed him up was that he’d been incredibly, unbelievably stupid, and Malfoy was going to _kill_ him.

*

His head was pounding when he woke. He flinched at it and at the light lancing straight through his eyeballs into the tenderest parts of his brain, the parts that still ached from being drugged.

He shifted, testing his body, and was relieved to find that he could still feel all his limbs, although he couldn’t move them much – he’d been tied down to some kind of wooden board.

Not tied, he amended, craning his head to see better; handcuffed, with two metal bands locking each of his arms and legs in place and another band above his ribcage over his heart. He pulled against them warily, and wasn’t surprised when they gave him a sharp, painful shock. Probably spelled, he thought, or treated with a variation of the formula the group used for the potion which stripped people of their magic – except instead of taking the magic away, these chains held it in, keeping prisoners entirely at the mercy of their captors. Someone had taken his shirt, and his skin was prickling in the chilly air. He thought maybe he was underground somewhere; the air felt damp, smelled just faintly of old, musty earth.

If he’d had any doubts about who had captured him, they wouldn’t have lasted past a brief glance around the room. It was small and nondescript, with bare grey walls and a single door directly in front of him. There was a rough wooden table to his right, with a small knife and a few vials of various sizes, all carefully lined up in rows on it.

He leaned his head back against the rough wood behind him, and wondered how long it’d take for his captors to realize he’d woken up. He was betting on not very long at all. At least they’d left his glasses on so he could see.

If he’d actually been betting against someone else, he would’ve won – not more than fifteen minutes later, a man quietly let himself in through the door directly in front of Harry. The most remarkable thing about him was that he was entirely unremarkable: had Harry seen him in a crowd, he wouldn’t have given him a second glance. Something about him was vaguely wrong, though, as if Harry should have recognized him, seen his nose or the curve of his cheekbones on another face.

“Mr Potter,” the man said, casual, unsmiling, as if they were distant acquaintances who’d happened to run across each other in the street. “How good to see you. I am sorry about the headache; it’s an unfortunate side effect of the form of Dreamless Sleep we’ve developed. And the bump on your skull doesn’t help.”

Harry concentrated on appearing as intimidating as possible despite his bonds. “Where is Malfoy?” he demanded. “What have you done with him?”

“Your partner?” the man asked, sounding bored. “What use would we have for _him_?”

Harry glared at him, the slight to Malfoy stinging oddly; he should have been glad that Malfoy hadn’t been touched, but all he could feel was anger on Malfoy’s behalf. Malfoy was just as important, just as powerful as Harry, and Harry bristled at the implication that he was anything less. “Let me go and _maybe_ we’ll talk about not locking you in Azkaban for the rest of your miserable life.”

_Only most of it_ , he added silently, but the man didn’t need to know that.

“No,” the man said thoughtfully. “I don’t think we will.”

“We?” Harry asked, just as footsteps came around from behind him. 

“Of course,” Renault Griswold said, standing next to the first man, and Harry could see now what had been off, what had been bothering him. He’d seen Renault’s picture before, in the file, and the two were cousins at least, with the same strong chin and high forehead. “You didn’t think I’d let my younger brother have all the fun, did you?”

Harry stared at them. This explained why they’d had such difficulty detecting two magical signatures, then – the difference in signatures between family members was much smaller than it normally would have been.

“I suppose I’m going to have to listen to you gloat now,” he commented, trying to keep his voice light. Griswold’s brother had turned his attention to the table next to Harry, rearranging a few of the vials and picking up the knife.

“I only wish we had the time,” Griswold said, and actually had the temerity to sound regretful. “Unfortunately, the next gibbous moon is tomorrow, and we have to get into position before we can prepare it –” he broke off and smiled at Harry, a wide grin that showed all of his teeth. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

They hadn’t, or at least Harry hadn’t, but Harry said nothing, storing the information away to tell Malfoy after he escaped. He didn’t let himself think about what might happen if he couldn’t escape: he needed to get back to Malfoy, warn him, make sure he really was safe.

“Hold still, please,” Renault’s brother said, a mocking tilt to his mouth, and before Harry could react, he made a long shallow gash in Harry’s chest, running diagonally from his shoulder over his heart to his breastbone.

Harry held himself absolutely still, refusing to give these men the pleasure of seeing him flinch. “That’s not part of your usual routine,” he commented blandly.

“No,” Griswold’s brother agreed. “But you are anything but usual, aren’t you? With something as magically powerful as your blood, we can finally bring down—”

“Raymond,” Griswold said sharply, cutting him off, and Raymond ducked his head, folding his lips together tightly as he grabbed a small vial off of the table and used it to collect the blood that was beginning to drip down Harry’s chest.

Harry tried not to curse – he’d been close, so close to real information about their motive. “I don’t see what harm he’s doing by telling me,” he said to Renault. “I assume you’ve taken me to extract my magic,” he cocked an eyebrow at Renault, who gave a small nod in reply. “Well, that’s going to kill me, isn’t it?” The words felt heavy, brash in his mouth, but he pushed them out anyway. He was _not_ going to die here. “So I don’t see the problem.”

“You’ve proven to be a very tricky man to kill,” Renault responded. “Forgive me if I do not entirely believe you don’t have one last surprise waiting up your sleeve.”

Harry tugged against his bonds again, just to test them, and winced as the cuffs holding him down shocked him. “Don’t do that,” Raymond said, corking the vial he’d used to catch Harry’s blood. “You’ll drain some of your magic off, and we need all of it.”

“Oh, excuse me for messing with your grand plans to kill me and take over the world,” Harry snapped before he could stop himself. The shock _hurt_ , made his nerves crackle painfully beneath his skin, and he still hadn’t figured out how he could possibly escape, not without his wand, with two armed wizards facing him and his magic bound. Renault was moving behind Raymond now, picking up the largest vial on the table and carefully drizzling the potion in a swirling pattern on the floor around them using his wand. 

“Afraid?” Renault asked, his voice silky. “Don’t worry, you aren’t alone; so many people are, when they face the end.”

Harry spat, aiming for Griswold’s foot. It landed on the floor instead, but at the look on Renault’s face he figured he’d still managed to convey the sentiment pretty well.

“Raymond,” Renault said. “The extractor, if you please.”

Raymond poured the last vial on the table into a shallow bowl before picking up a small brush and dipping it into the potion. “This part can be a bit... uncomfortable,” he said, turning to Harry with a gleam in his eye. He brought the brush up, its tip gleaming, and Harry tried to lean away from it, ignoring the shocks that ran through his body as he tugged against the shackles.

Renault snapped a word, and suddenly there was another metal band around his head, locking him entirely in place. Raymond moved quickly, painting careful lines over his forehead and down the sides of his face, curving around his cheeks before running down his neck. The lines were cold, freezing his skin to the point of pain, and he grit his teeth against the sensations as Raymond continued down his body, looping stripes around his arms and chest before Banishing his trousers and pants and moving to his legs. Harry didn’t have time to be embarrassed, just stared grimly at the ceiling when Raymond began to work on his hips with the brush, moving steadily in toward his groin.

“We do apologize for the intrusion,” Renault said, sounding amused and not at all apologetic. “The lines must be exactly placed to guide the extraction of magic from the body. If they aren’t...” He shrugged. “Things could go badly wrong.”

“I don’t see how they could get any worse for me, actually,” Harry gritted out, ignoring the cold seeping deeper into his body from the potion. He was struggling harder now, trying to pull his hands through the shackles as subtly as he could, balancing on one foot while he maneuvered the other, working into a position he might be able to slip free from. He thought that if he dislocated his shoulder he could get one whole arm free, which might lessen the block on his magic enough that he’d be able to summon his wand. The lines on his body felt slimy, heavy, as if they were pressing in on him, winding tighter than the cuffs securing him.

Raymond stepped back with a satisfied look, setting aside the bowl and brush and surveying his work; Renault came forward to stand beside him.

“Excellent work, brother,” he said, waving his wand, and then Harry couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear, the world lost in one sheer burst of pain. It faded slowly, and he blinked the room back into existence, his eyes watering. He’d bitten his lip; the metallic tang of blood in his mouth helped focus him.

The brothers were watching him calmly. “Surely you didn’t think this would be painless?” Renault asked, and Harry tried to work his mouth into the right shape to spit again, but he couldn’t manage it. There was something coming loose deep inside him, peeling away from his chest and burrowing deep into his gut. “I’ll let you in on our secret now,” Renault whispered, taking a step closer so that his lips almost brushed Harry’s ear. Harry tried to jerk away, sweating now, but he couldn’t move, and every muscle was screaming at him. “We’re going to finish the work the Dark Lord started, cleanse the country entirely.”

“Yeah, because that worked so well for him,” Harry managed. “Let me know how you do murdering every Muggle in Britain without anyone catching on and stopping you.”

Raymond laughed. “What do you think we gathered all this magic for?” he asked, leaning in next to his brother on Harry’s other side. “It’s too good to waste on Mudbloods. With your blood as the anchor, we can sink the Isles under the sea entirely. Rather poetic, isn’t it?”

“It has become a polluted place,” Renault continued. “Too polluted for half measures. We will flood the land, turn it into a second Atlantis, and when it has been cleansed we will raise it again and start afresh; a pureblood republic which will last for eternity. And when we’ve done that, we will do the same with the rest of Europe.” He shrugged. “Who knows, perhaps sometimes we will cleanse the whole world, populate it entirely with the worthy.”

_Until the inbreeding kills you all_ , Harry wanted to say, but whatever was working its way inside of him twisted, drove deeper, and he barely held back the scream that tried to rip its way out of his throat at the second wave of pain swamping him. He could _feel_ his magic, burning hot inside him, feel the potion sapping its heat. It was a visceral sensation, something that ran far deeper than arousal or fear, reached further inside him than either fury or love had ever done. It was strong, forcing its way through every barrier he threw up to defend himself, sucking at his very marrow, dirty and too-intimate and wrong. He could feel his magic slipping away from him, ripping loose and leaving a ragged hole at his core.

More of him was being pulled apart; he was freezing without his magic to keep him warm, and the shivers of the aftershocks were tearing more of himself away. Malfoy had been right. This was why everyone died – the Griswolds hadn’t bothered to contain the effects of their potion. As long as they removed the magic before their victim died, they didn’t care if they left everything else to self-destruct around the emptiness inside.

There was shouting somewhere, and Harry thought the room might be trembling – but that might have been him, shaking apart somewhere no one would ever find him.

“Potter!”

The yell was directed right into his ear, and he winced away. Trust him to hallucinate Malfoy as he died. He wondered woozily if the hallucination could carry word back to the real Malfoy about what the real danger was facing Britain – not murders but total genocide.

Something hit his chest hard, filling him up. He gasped for breath, and realized that he had stopped breathing, had frozen entirely while his magic was leeched away. His body was loosening now, growing steadily warmer, pins and needles pricking their painful way up and down his limbs.

The shackles holding him down released suddenly, and he stumbled forward, his legs too weak to support his weight. Someone caught him before he fell, and he peered at whoever it was, concentrating hard to focus his swimming vision: blond hair, a familiar sharp nose, grey eyes.

“Malfoy,” he sighed, relaxing. Malfoy was here, Malfoy was alright, everything was going to be okay. Malfoy had a blanket, and he was tucking it around Harry’s shoulders firmly, covering him. Harry’s legs were getting stronger already, and he leaned back a little, supporting his own weight instead of slumping all over Malfoy, weighing him down. He could feel collapse hovering on the edges of his consciousness, and shoved it away hard. They had to get out of this place first.

“Potter,” Malfoy replied, and Harry squinted up at him again. Malfoy sounded _furious_ , angrier than Harry’d ever seen him before. “You complete and utter _idiot_. I’m glad you’re not dead because I am going to _kill you myself_.” He took a firmer hold on Harry’s shoulders, and kissed him, thrillingly hard and angry.

Harry had a few seconds of confused, almost delighted surprise before his sense memory came rushing back, and all he could feel were the Griswold brothers on either side, sucking his magic out, reaching into him, pulling out his warmth and leaving him to die, freezing.

He staggered back, pushing violently at Malfoy. They looked at each other for a moment, Harry panting, wide-eyed as he tried to get himself back under control; Malfoy’s expression rapidly closing off entirely.

“I—” Harry started, and couldn’t put it into words, lamely settling for, “Merlin, Malfoy, just... not here.” He tried to say _Sorry_ , but it got stuck in his throat; he couldn’t work it out past the growing lump.

“You’re right, I don’t know what came over me,” Malfoy said, crisp, utterly detached, and something broke a little further inside Harry. “They’re clearing the building now, but Griswold’s already gone. I’m going to run a check on you now, alright?”

Harry nodded. “They?” he asked as Malfoy raised his wand and ran it professionally over Harry’s body, no emotion in his face or movements as he healed the cut over Harry’s heart.

“The Aurors,” Malfoy said, transfiguring the blanket around Harry’s shoulders into a shapeless coat. “I sent a distress signal as soon as you went missing. _I_ am not the one who runs into situations without backup.”

“Oh,” Harry replied, feeling foolish. “I couldn’t... I couldn’t find you, and I heard something from down the hall, and I thought maybe...” He couldn’t finish the thought.

“You’re an idiot,” Malfoy said again. “You didn’t stop to think that maybe it was a trap?”

“No,” muttered Harry. “Couldn’t stop, not when I thought y—” he caught himself just in time; “someone was in trouble.” 

Malfoy had a curious look in his eyes, but before Harry could study it his expression was smooth again. “Griswold’s smart,” he said. “Clearly it was too much to hope that you’d be able to outwit him.”

Harry jumped on the opportunity to change the subject. “It’s not just Griswold,” he told Malfoy quickly. “His brother’s helping him too.”

Malfoy actually stepped back at that, surprised. “Really,” he said, eyes already narrowed in thought. “Tell me everything.”

Harry did, told Malfoy the whole story, and only stumbled twice over the part where Malfoy had him describe the lines Raymond had drawn and the feeling of having his magic sucked away. Malfoy took his arm and studied the welts the potion had left on Harry’s skin. They were an angry red, but already fading, shrinking in on themselves.

“It’s just as well we have to act quickly, then,” Malfoy commented. “I’m not sure I could retrace them exactly.” 

Harry hummed agreement and tried not to flinch, but Malfoy noticed anyway.

“It’s the only way to counteract such a huge working,” he said, and Harry nodded.

“I know,” he said, hunching one shoulder. 

Malfoy gave him a close look. “If they have your blood as well as your magic, the only possible way we have to anchor the wards and keep them from coming apart entirely is using your body as the anchor, link you in directly to the ward net as a final defense.”

“I know,” Harry repeated. He’d come across the theory in one of Malfoy’s books and glanced at it briefly, flipping through just long enough to get the general gist of the thing and to note that the theory had never actually been put into practice.

Malfoy reached out, as if he was going to put a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder, but changed the movement halfway through, so he scratched his own ear instead. “Come on,” he said, beckoning Harry out of the room. “Let’s go home.”

‘Home’ turned out to be not the flat, as Harry was expecting, but the Ministry; Malfoy spent a few minutes arguing with the other Aurors about whether or not Harry was able to Side-Along Apparate before tugging Harry to him in a huff and demonstrating that it was entirely possible for someone without magic to Apparate with someone else. It was a distinctly horrible experience, though, worse than Apparating had ever been before, and Harry had to stagger off and vomit behind a potted plant in the Ministry’s Atrium when they landed, nearly losing his blanket-coat in the process.

He kept reaching for his magic absently, forgetting that there was a yawning pit where it had been, and nearly threw up again when he tried to cast a spell to clean out his mouth. The Atrium was full of people gawking; Harry tried to find some anger to direct at whoever’s idea Apparating there had been, but he couldn’t come up with anything except exhaustion.

Malfoy came up behind him, shielding him from view, and handed him a handkerchief. “Here,” he said, tapping his wand gently on Harry, and Harry watched as the Disillusionment Charm took hold. He couldn’t see himself; a side-effect of losing his magic, he thought, and abruptly wanted to strangle something.

Malfoy stayed near him all the way up to the Auror Department, but didn’t touch him once. Harry hadn’t realized how used to Malfoy he’d become, how accustomed to Malfoy’s small touches to his wrist or shoulder or the nape of his neck until they weren’t there anymore. The anger growing in the pit of his stomach spread a little further at the loss, and the realization that the loss _meant_ something to Harry where it shouldn’t have ever mattered. He’d lived long enough without Malfoy’s touch; the thought of going back to that shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t feel like every day would just be carving a little more out of him, widening the loss bit by bit.

When they found the Griswolds, Harry vowed, he was going to tear them apart. He wanted them to feel exactly what they’d done, ripping the threads of peoples’ souls apart until the whole tapestry crumbled.

Malfoy tried to usher him into his office, but Harry resisted. On some level he knew that he should sit down for a minute, just rest, but he couldn’t; if he stopped and let his rage deflate, he’d never get back up again. Besides, the emptiness was slowly becoming easier to bear. He was learning where the edges of the wound were and could avoid them for the most part now. He ignored the quiet thought that maybe he’d have to negotiate around the hole for the rest of his life. They were going to get his magic back, they _were_. 

“Where’s Dawlish?” he asked Malfoy, and Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“I have just as much of an idea as you do, Potter,” he said. “Or did you miss the part where I’ve been stuck in a flat in Europe for the last two months with you, and not following the Head Auror’s every move?”

Harry made a face at Malfoy, feeling a little more normal, and took off down the corridor, heading for Dawlish’s office.

They didn’t find him there, or anywhere in the Auror Department. “He’ll be with Shacklebolt,” Harry realized, after they’d done the third sweep of the main offices. “They’ll have their heads together, planning.”

Malfoy did an abrupt about face, heading back toward the lift, and Harry had to trot to keep up. The Minister’s Office required a code to gain access to, but there were benefits to being friends with the Minister and his closest advisor; Harry keyed it into the lift quickly.

“You should be the one to tell them,” Malfoy said, giving Harry a sideways look, “since you were actually there.” Harry swallowed and nodded. He knew Malfoy was right, but it was – telling Malfoy had been one thing, after living in each other’s pockets for so long, but sitting down with his bosses and giving a report about something like this, something so intimately violating, was going to be difficult.

“I’ll be right there,” Malfoy said, and Harry didn’t _need_ comfort, really, but he gave Malfoy a quick smile all the same, feeling a weight he hadn’t realized was hanging from his shoulders fall away.

They had to wait for a few minutes outside of Kingsley’s office. Harry busied himself by looking out the window, one of the few to show the actual weather instead of an eternally sunny day, studying the way the wind blew the misting rain sideways. London had shrunk since they’d left it; it seemed was grey and cold, holding its breath, waiting. Even so, he felt a fierce love for it rising inside of him, a warm kinship with all of the people scuttling from home to shop and back beneath their black umbrellas or spread newspapers, blissfully unaware that in twenty-four hours, their country might be underwater.

“Potter,” Malfoy’s voice came from behind him, and he turned to see that the door to Kingsley’s office was open. He squared his shoulder and walked through it, taking the chair Kingsley gestured to and smoothing his hands over his knees to keep himself from clenching them.

It was easier than he’d thought, in the end. Dawlish and Kingsley kept their faces carefully neutral, and didn’t interrupt him at all. He focused on a stain in Kingsley’s beige carpeting, drawing strength from Malfoy’s quiet warmth beside him.

When he was finished, Kingsley let out a long breath.

“Well,” he said, rubbing his bald forehead with the back of his hand. “That’s certainly... beyond anything we expected. We’ll never find them in time to stop them at this point.” He looked old and tired, the corners of his mouth pulling down.

“It’s possible to counteract it from a distance,” Malfoy put in, and both Kingsley and Dawlish swung around to look at him, a hungering kind of desperation on their faces. Harry could sympathise, though perhaps not quite in the same way.

“If we tie Harry into the wards, use him as the anchor, it’s possible he’ll be able to fight them off and keep the wards intact,” explained Malfoy, and Harry started at the realization that Malfoy had used his first name. “While he does that, I can use the wards to find them and pull the magic they’ve gathered away from them and use it to strengthen the wards. Once I’ve done that, I may be able to separate Harry’s magic out from the rest and return it to him.” He looked over at Harry, his face serious. “I can’t guarantee anything,” he said, “but it’s worth a try.”

Harry nodded, slightly dizzy with the possibility. To have his magic back... he cut the thought off. It was only a possibility; he couldn’t let himself get carried away with hope.

Kingsley and Dawlish were sharing a speaking kind of look.

“Very well,” Kingsley said. “You can assure us of Harry’s safety?”

Malfoy rubbed his chin. “To an extent,” he said. “There’s always the danger that the wards will overpower him and absorb him for good, but as long as he remains purely an anchor and doesn’t extend himself out into the wards, he should be fine.”

Kingsley nodded. “How long will you need to prepare?”

“The Department of Mysteries can begin setting everything up now,” Malfoy said, handing over a scrap of parchment. Harry caught a glimpse of it and realized it was a list of ingredients from the potion he and Snape had discussed. When had Malfoy had time to write that? “It shouldn’t be more than a few hours brewing the potion, though.”

“Fine,” Kingsley said. “Dawlish, will you fill in the rest of the Aurors?”

“Consider it done,” Dawlish told him. “We’ll be on full alert.”

Kingsley looked at them. “Go rest,” he told Harry. “You’ll need your strength, and you look like the Knight Bus just ran over you.”

“Thanks, sir,” Harry muttered, but he left the office anyway, Malfoy following right behind him.

Malfoy stuck close to him, ushering him to an empty storeroom and ordering him to stay put before disappearing briefly, returning with steaming rice and lo mein from the take-away down the street.

“Brilliant,” Harry said fervently when he smelled the food, and devoured half of it almost before Malfoy had finished unwrapping his chopsticks. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since he’d eaten, Harry belatedly realized. No wonder he felt like he was about to fall over. It felt like weeks had passed. It didn’t seem possible at all that the day before he’d had his magic, that they hadn’t been to see Snape or figured out the final ingredients of the potion, that Harry hadn’t been kidnapped by the Griswolds or kissed by Malfoy.

He couldn’t keep the flush from rising in his cheeks at the last thought, and snuck a glance over at Malfoy, who was contentedly eating his lo mein, a studied look of concentration on his face. He felt a little badly about how he’d reacted, even if he did have a legitimate reason. It had been too soon, too much to even begin to handle after having his magic leeched away like that.

He very determinedly did not think about how he might have reacted if Malfoy had kissed him at any other time.

Malfoy glanced over at him, setting aside the carton of take-away. “You should try to sleep,” he said.

“I know,” Harry replied, looking down at where his hands rested on his knees. “I don’t know if I can, though.” The anger inside him had calmed some, but it was still simmering away, thrumming beneath his skin, and when he thought about how vulnerable he’d be if he slept, it jumped, tinged with fear.

Malfoy’s eyes were uncomfortably full of understanding. “I’ll keep watch,” he offered quietly. “The Department of Mysteries is perfectly capable setting everything up, and I gave Granger a copy of the brewing instructions while I was out. It’ll be a few hours before they’ll be ready for us.”

Harry nodded, ashamed, but he wriggled around, stretching out on the floor with his back against the wall. He was an adult, for Merlin’s sake – he shouldn’t need someone to watch over him while he slept – but Malfoy didn’t seem like he was judging Harry for it, looked perfectly content to just lean against the wall and rest himself. Malfoy was probably exhausted too, Harry realized, and looking for an excuse to sit down and do nothing for a while. With that thought comforting him, he closed his eyes, and was asleep before he could even think about the floor being uncomfortable.

*

Malfoy woke him a few hours later, prodding him gently on the shoulder. Harry groaned and rolled over, his muscles protesting. Sleeping on a hard cold floor had probably not been the best choice, he admitted to himself, but he did feel more rested.

“They should be ready for us,” Malfoy said, looking at Harry. “Are you ready?”

Harry tried to smile, but it came out twisted. “As ready as I’m going to be.” 

Malfoy’s hand made another abortive move toward Harry, but Malfoy ended up using it to lever himself off the floor instead. Harry bit back his questions, and followed Malfoy out of the storeroom.

The Department of Mysteries, Harry sometimes thought, had only become more mysterious in the years since he’d first visited it. He was lost almost immediately, but Malfoy seemed to know exactly where he was going, choosing a path at each corner with absolute confidence as they worked their way deeper and deeper into the Department.

They wound up in a small, low-ceilinged room with runes etched into the floors and walls. Harry could feel the power in it, pressing in on him, squeezing the breath out of his lungs.

“It’s going to be a little overwhelming for you, without your magic to dampen the effects.” Malfoy had noticed his discomfort, and drew near to murmur in Harry’s ear while they watched a few black-robed Department of Mysteries employees put the final touches on the swirling pattern in the floor. It was faded, cracked in places; there were a few sections which wouldn’t absorb the potion at all. “This is where the wards were cast, where they’re anchored currently.”

“So when you make me the anchor,” Harry said, because the thought had been preying on him, “am I going to be the anchor forever?”

Malfoy gave a surprised laugh. “Merlin, no!” he exclaimed. “No one could stand being an anchor for very long. If all goes well, you’ll be anchoring the wards for less than a minute, that’s all.”

Harry nodded, still uneasy about the whole thing, and asked, “Has anyone – er, you know, has anyone ever done this before?”

“No,” Malfoy said, looking at Harry. “Nothing like this has ever been done before.”

“Oh.” Harry studied the design on the floor, doing his level best to appear calm. 

Malfoy crossed over to him. “You know the theory as well as I do,” he said quietly, and Harry had to curl his fingers into his own robe to keep from reaching out to grab Malfoy for comfort. “It’s going to work. You’re going to be fine.” He caught sight of someone over Harry’s shoulder and nodded, stepping back again. “I have to oversee the final brewing stages,” he told Harry, and Harry nodded again, watching as Malfoy walked over to the two witches hovering over a steaming cauldron in one corner. He took the stirring rod away from one of them almost immediately, peering down into the cauldron with focused intent. He really had wanted to come earlier, Harry realized – Malfoy always wanted to be in the middle of things so he could supervise them – but he’d stayed with Harry instead.

His earlier shame was an itch at the edge of his consciousness, but a strange kind of warmth was trickling through him despite it at the thought that Malfoy had cared more about Harry than overseeing every step of the potion.

“Harry?”

Hermione’s voice pulled Harry out of his thoughts before he could really start processing them. He tried for a smile, turning to look at her, and when the corners of her lips tilted slightly upward he counted it as a success.

“Hi,” he said, and stopped, unsure. He’d been so wrapped up in the work he and Malfoy had been doing, he hadn’t given much thought at all to contacting any of his friends. He knew from past experience that Hermione always took it the worst when she thought he was shutting her out.

“Oh, stop that,” she said, her voice scratchy with emotion, and pulled him into a fierce hug. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her back, burying his face in her familiar shoulder.

“Be careful,” she whispered. “We’ll sort things out later—” he knew it had been too good to hope she’d just forget that he’d dropped off the face of the earth, “—so you just concentrate on stopping these people without... without...”

“I will,” he stepped in, rescuing her. “And you can yell at me for everything after.”

She sniffed and let him go, blinking her eyes, a tiny smile still on her face. “Believe me,” she said, glancing at Malfoy for a moment. “I will.”

Harry chose to ignore any of the implications of that look. “I know,” he assured her. “Just say the word and I will show up wherever you want to deliver the lecture.”

“No you won’t,” she said, but her smile was growing wider. “You’ll hide somewhere and make me track you down and probably spell you to a chair.”

“Maybe,” Harry allowed. “But I’ll hide somewhere easy?”

She gave him a little push on his shoulder with one finger. “You’d better.”

“Potter,” Malfoy said behind him. “It’s time.”

Hermione gave him one last hug and left, herding the others out with her, leaving him alone with Malfoy.

“Right,” Harry said, trying valiantly not to remember what this had felt like last time, the fabric of his being tearing apart. “Let’s do this.”

He took off his glasses and his robe at Malfoy’s instruction and stood in the centre of the room, holding his arms out obediently for Malfoy and steeling himself for what was to come. Malfoy stood in front of him with the brush and bowl of potion, and began painting over the lines on Harry’s skin. Expecting cold, Harry nearly jerked in surprise when the potion felt warm, as if Malfoy was pulling a soft blanket over Harry’s skin.

“It’s part of the difference between the potions,” Malfoy explained when Harry asked. “This isn’t the poison the Griswolds used exactly; it’s going to help me bind your magic back to your body, instead of taking it away. Where the first destroys, this heals.” He thought for a moment before adding, “It also might be due to intent. The first was applied in hate and fear, and this one is—” He stopped himself, and Harry looked down to see a faint flush rise in his cheeks. “Never mind.”

Harry wanted to ask, to press further, but Malfoy was working his way down to Harry’s legs, gently dragging the brush across Harry’s skin, and suddenly Harry had to concentrate all of his attention on not completely embarrassing himself. Before, Harry had been too cold, too horrified to worry about anything other than the effects of the potion; now he fought against arousal, the warm tingles building beneath his skin at every rustle of Malfoy’s clothing, every soft puff of breath Harry felt against his skin. Malfoy was kneeling now, so he could reach Harry’s ankles, and Harry had a vision of Malfoy kneeling before him in a very different situation, his eyes meeting Harry’s as his pink lips wrapped around Harry’s cock, tongue flicking out to tease... Harry yanked himself away from the thoughts, but the damage was already done. 

Malfoy very kindly said nothing, though he did pause for a fraction of a second when he noticed Harry’s burgeoning erection. Harry stared at the space above his head, crimson with embarrassment, and gave silent thanks when Malfoy finished, nearly trembling with effort and very close to losing himself entirely.

He would have said something, apologized, but Malfoy was taking up his position at the edge of the pattern on the floor.

“Here we go, Potter,” Malfoy said, still a little flushed. “Remember, you’ve got to hold on. If you let the wards go, we’re all finished.”

Harry nodded jerkily, and set his feet firmly apart. He supposed it wouldn’t make much of a difference in the end, but it made him feel more solid, grounded. Malfoy raised his wand, chanting, and Harry felt the wards suck him in, wrap hot tendrils around him and drag him backwards into themselves. The world went fuzzy and pale around him, but he could see the wards now, millions of tiny threads all spinning together around him. He reached out, grabbed fistfuls of them, and held on tight, nearly biting through his lip as their power roared into him.

For a moment he just hung on, focusing on anchoring them, but as he adjusted to the furious strength of the wards he could feel the wrongness in them, the way the edges were fraying to the point of giving way entirely. Malfoy’s warnings about going further in still echoed in his ears, and he hesitated, but then something in the wards _screamed_ and he couldn’t keep himself in one place anymore, couldn’t stand to just wait while things shriveled up around him.

He sent himself out through the threads, rushing through them until he could feel every strand of the wards, trembling and horrifically weak in places. He poured his strength into them – he was pretty sure Malfoy would kill him if he survived, but he could tell the wards were going to fail, despite his body anchoring them. The wards shuddered, stabilized, and this was _incredible_ , he realized. He could feel his body distantly, still standing in the Ministry, keeping him tied to the world, but he was everywhere, flying over moors and fields and hills, tasting sea salt while he smelt heather and London’s heavy fog and fresh-fallen snow.

It was like he’d suddenly become part of everything, or everything had melted into him. He could feel Malfoy on his skin, a licking kind of warmth in the lines of the potion, and beneath that he could feel just the faintest touch of wrongness, of the Griswolds. Now that he was focusing on that, he could trace the second spell Malfoy was working, follow it through the threads of the wards until he slammed to a halt, the wards wrapping tightly around him and holding him in place.

The threads ended in front of him abruptly, as if they’d been dissolved away, and beyond that emptiness he could feel a sour echo of himself, steadily growing where the Griswolds were using his magic, his blood to tear apart the net of the wards. He howled in fury – how _dare_ they, how dare they use him to destroy everything he was – and tugged forward, but the wards held him fast, refused to let him go into the emptiness, whispering to him in fear.

He fell back a bit, gathering himself, and when he felt them loosen their grip he threw himself forward, roaring down on the brothers, pressing the emptiness back with all the fury and passion he could muster, crushing them beneath himself and pulling the ward net after him. For a moment he thought it was working, thought he’d done it, but then the wards began to break away from him, snapping one by one in the poison air. He grasped at them desperately, and _yanked_ , and there was a terrific snapping boom before everything came rushing _in_ , swamping him completely. 

There was magic everywhere, suffocating him, crawling over his skin and into every crevice of his body, and when he opened his mouth to yell it flooded his throat, clawing its way deep inside. It didn’t recognize him, fought against him even as he tried to stumble back from it, but just before it broke him open entirely a wall of light that felt overwhelmingly of Malfoy rushed in, shielding him from the worst of it. He watched as the light reached out into the whirling mass of free magic, feeding it into the threads of the wards, and he could feel the net soaking it up, growing steadily stronger as it absorbed the new power.

The Malfoy-light was teasing away a thick strand of magic from the rest, fighting off the wards as they tried to suck it up, and drew it behind the wall with Harry, thrusting it toward him. Harry drew in a sharp breath as it passed the barrier, dizzy with recognition – this was his magic, rescued whole, and he reached for it eagerly. It slammed into him as soon as his fingers touched it, blazing a path along the lines Malfoy had painted on his skin. He felt too-small, as if he’d shrunk while it had been gone and now it was trying to fill its old space, pushing outward at his lungs and arms and skull, pushing, demanding more.

He dropped to his knees at the pressure, suddenly back in the ward room with Malfoy, and gasped brokenly for breath. Malfoy was by his side in an instant, catching him, and Harry’s skin was stretching, his chest expanding from where it had collapsed, and he was pretty sure he was going to start glowing at any minute. Every touch from Malfoy felt like a burn; the pain from his magic was fading but he was too many places at once, and with the wards restored to their full power he had no control over them, no way to stop them from absorbing him completely.

He groped for Malfoy’s hand and squeezed it, crushing it close to keep himself from closing his eyes and letting himself be swept off. “Finish it,” he croaked, and Malfoy lost no time in raising his wand and finishing the spell with a loud cry and a decisive twist of his hand.

The wards snapped back into the floor, brighter than sunlight, blinding and whole again. Harry sighed and lost the remaining strength in his muscles at the release, slumping in Malfoy’s arms, and Malfoy wavered under him before losing his balance and tumbling to the ground, somehow managing to wind up half on top of Harry’s chest. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Malfoy put his head down and started laughing helplessly, the worry in his face breaking apart.

Harry couldn’t help laughing with him, giddy from the power flowing around them, and reached up without thinking to curl a hand around Malfoy’s neck, pulling him into a deep kiss.

Malfoy made a muffled noise of surprise, but didn’t resist, didn’t pull back when Harry licked his way into Malfoy’s mouth. It was slick, hot and sweet and exactly what Harry hadn’t known he needed, and he pressed up hungrily, searching for more, demanding everything Malfoy had to give him.

Malfoy did pull back at that, gasping, his eyes wide, his mouth red and shiny. “Potter,” he said shakily. “What the hell was that?”

Harry slid his fingers over Malfoy’s shoulders, still riding high on the currents of power in him and around him. He didn’t know if he could put his thoughts in order, but Malfoy was stiff under his hands and looking oddly vulnerable.

“You made it pretty clear before you didn’t want anything to do with this, with me,” Malfoy reminded him, and Harry remembered throwing himself back, away from Malfoy, and the flash of hurt in Malfoy’s eyes.

“Malfoy,” he said, struggling to form words when his blood was singing under his skin, “I’d just been stripped naked in front of two evil masterminds and had my magic ripped out of me. I was hardly in the mood.”

Malfoy eyed him, nonplussed. “And you are now?” he inquired, bland, but Harry knew better, could read the worry in his tone.

“For you,” he said, pressing his hand over Malfoy’s heart. “Just for you.”

There was a beat where Harry was worried Malfoy would refuse, would pull away like Harry had earlier and walk away, leaving Harry aching on the floor, but Malfoy lowered his head again and kissed Harry, cautious, as if he expected Harry to vanish. Harry let him in, opened himself to Malfoy’s tentative explorations, content for the moment to run his hands over Malfoy’s back, exploring the angles of his body and closing his eyes against the light still bathing the room. They should go let everyone know it had worked, that the country was safe, but first he wanted this for himself.

Having Malfoy pressed against him steadied Harry a bit, but he still felt a little delirious from all the power running through him, needed to give more than what Malfoy was taking. He broke the kiss and wormed his way around until Malfoy sat up, freeing him, and then he leaned back in, recapturing Malfoy’s mouth briefly before moving along his jaw, down his neck, scraping his teeth gently along Malfoy’s pale collarbone. Malfoy hummed under the attention, let his head fall back and allowed Harry to press him down to the floor, rolling them until he was over Malfoy, feeling Malfoy’s long body against his own and Malfoy’s hands on his bare skin.

When Harry nipped at a tender spot just under Malfoy’s ear, Malfoy arched up with a gasp, and _oh_ , Harry thought dizzily, oh, that was good, that was...

Malfoy did it again, rolling his hips up against Harry’s, and when his hands slipped down over Harry’s arse and squeezed, pulling Harry against him, Harry lost whatever reservations he might have had left. He braced himself on one hand, fumbling at Malfoy’s robes with the other, wrenching at them until Malfoy let go with an impatient noise and helped him, pulling the robes up until Harry could get at his zip. Harry didn’t bother taking Malfoy’s clothes all the way off, too desperate, driven too far to care if the cloth scraped a little roughly against his skin.

Malfoy’s cock jumped when Harry wrapped a hand around it and brushed his thumb over the head, marveling a little. “Circe,” Malfoy breathed, his fingers digging into Harry’s upper arm. He tugged Harry forward, his free hand darting between their bodies to caress Harry’s cock. Harry hissed out a breath, rocking forward into Malfoy’s grip, and nearly forgot to reciprocate until Malfoy growled, “Don’t be a damn tease, Potter,” and bit his bottom lip, just hard enough to send a little shiver shooting down Harry’s spine.

Harry moved his hand obediently, watching in wonder as Malfoy gasped, trying to pay attention to what things made Malfoy press his head back, which made him keen, almost imperceptibly, from the pleasure of it all. It was hard to concentrate when Malfoy’s hand was working at his cock, jerking him steadily, the slide of his skin against Harry and the occasional extra jolt when his calluses dragged just right slowly robbing Harry of his breath.

The room was full of the sound of them, gasping breaths and the slick slap of moving skin, and Harry lost himself in it, in the choking sounds Malfoy made when Harry slipped his hand further down to sweep his fingers across Malfoy’s balls. Malfoy shifted, pulled his hand away, and Harry almost protested before Malfoy’s hand was back, pressing Harry’s dick against his own and wrapping his long fingers around them both. Harry’s hips stuttered forward, his eyes fluttering shut of their own accord, and Malfoy was tangling their fingers together around their cocks and thrusting up, his dick hot and slippery against Harry’s. It was so much, too much to take in, and when Malfoy pressed his lips to a sensitive spot underneath Harry’s jaw, Harry cried out and came, shoving his hips forward hard. Malfoy arched up, his fingers slipping in Harry’s come, his face twisting up as he followed Harry over the edge.

Harry rolled off of Malfoy after, his nerves still fizzling pleasantly, and they lay there for a minute, listening to their breath evening out and watching the reassuring play of shadows against the ceiling.

“Kingsley’ll kill us if we fall asleep here,” Harry said at last, though he didn’t think he was capable of movement just yet.

“Mm,” Malfoy commented, sounding distant. “He’s going to kill us anyway.”

Harry tipped his head so he could look at Malfoy. “Are we okay?” he asked, as it dawned on him that this had perhaps been a singularly terrible idea.

Malfoy snorted. “Okay?” he said in disbelief, and Harry could feel his face fall. He made to get up, wondering where Malfoy had put his glasses and whether he could find them and the robe Malfoy had conjured for him without having to talk anymore, but before he could go far Malfoy’s hand was curled around his elbow, tugging him back down.

“ _Okay_ is an understatement,” Malfoy told him firmly. “That was brilliant, Potter, and I’m going to expect a repeat performance very shortly.”

Harry laughed. “Really?” he asked, delighted, and Malfoy pulled him in for another thorough kiss, as if he was trying to prove just how much he meant it. Harry sent a silent locking spell in the direction of the door and twisted his fingers into Malfoy’s hair as Malfoy maneuvered him onto his back, grinning all the way.


End file.
